


Ode to an Asshole

by Xetera



Series: Dream SMP Angst [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Dream Team SMP Spoilers, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Letters, M/M, Mentioned Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Self-Worth Issues, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28381086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xetera/pseuds/Xetera
Summary: Tommy finds one of Quackity's letters- a letter addressed to deceased president Schlatt.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity/Jschlatt
Series: Dream SMP Angst [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2078583
Comments: 20
Kudos: 253





	Ode to an Asshole

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Mentions of abuse, Emotional Manipulation  
> (Adding this disclaimer: this is not me shipping them. This is a character study playing off their pre-existing relationship in the SMP. Are we on the same page? Great.)

Very few days in Logstedshire are interesting. Tommy lets the onslaught of hollow days carry him like a weightless corpse, ever exhausted from the monotony of it all. Today, however, is different.

While gathering another excessive pile of logs deep between the birch and oaks, he finds a piece of paper trapped in a branch. It’s tattered and worn, seeming to have traveled a long distance to find him. By the looks of it, all the way from L’manberg itself.

Interested, he plucks it from its place, looking it over curiously. At first glance, he notices the tear stains and smudged writing, some lines being scribbled out entirely.

It’s a letter.

A letter from Quackity.

* * *

Dear President Schlatt,

I read somewhere you should still refer to a former president as "president." That's pretty fucking stupid.

I'm writing all of this before I lose the words. I'm afraid you'll somehow find this and... I don't know. Fuck me over one last time.

You're dead now. No matter how many months it's been, it doesn't feel that way. I see it in the others, the way your corpse hangs over us like an omen. You're never really going to be gone. That's not a good thing.

I still think about you. I see Ghostbur walking around as if nothing happened, blissfully ignorant and enjoying himself. The first thought that popped into my head is "why isn't Schlatt here?" I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

That's how it is with you, right? Well, was, now. Always one compliment away from making me putty in your hands, just to break me the next moment. You're every bad thing that ever happened to me. We're moving forward without you. There's houses now, neighborhoods, people with lives.

~~ I'm glad that you're gone ~~

~~ I miss you ~~

~~ I feel empty ~~

The fuck am I supposed to do now?

I didn't cry at your funeral. Maybe I wasn't supposed to. But I feel like I should have, maybe just one tear so I stop feeling so fucking guilty. Guilty because I'm the reason you won, or guilty because I could've saved you, I don't fucking know. Either way, it's my fault.

We did have good times. I try to remember that. We laughed. And loved, maybe. I don't know if you ever loved me. Now I never will. It feels like all I have are the scars you left behind, drowning out what little of you I remember. I cling to those memories.

You, in that rumpled suit that was one size too big. You, unshaven and barely kempt, with flyaways of salt and pepper hair. You, brandishing your horns like you had someone to impress. You, always smelling vaguely of scotch- single malt, which you insisted tasted better but I never knew the difference. You, and that flicker in your eyes that came before the rage. You, targeting every weakness you could weasel out of me. You, making me bitter and angry, leaving me here with nothing.

Everyone else has something. They have hope, a life to build now that you're gone. It's not fair. It was never fair, not with you.

You told me something once. You said I wear armor to look big and strong, but when it came down to it, I was powerless against you. Right after you said that I plunged an arrow in your chest. Wherever you are, I hope you know I don't wear armor anymore. I don't need it. I don't need you either.

Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I'll believe it.

The people here, they accept me. They appreciate me. Maybe they don't understand me, but they don't need to. Their friendship is unwavering. Your love was conditional.

I met another man with wings. You told me mine were pathetic, ugly even. I can't fly yet, I don't know if I ever will. But I let them out now. I'm taking back the power you took from me. In baby steps, but steps all the same.

I'm still not happy. I probably won't be for a while. But I'm learning, and that's all I need. I'm learning just how much you did to me, things I never noticed. How I flinch when someone raises their hand. How I shrink when someone raises their voice. 

I think that's why I'm writing this. To tell you I'm better now.

I think I'll burn this letter. I'll take a trip to the nether and watch it fall into lava. I'll watch it wither away like you. One day I'll be better, and happy, and with someone who doesn't make me feel the way you did. Then I'll look back and laugh, or maybe not look back at all. And I'll smile thinking of how angry that would make you. And smile knowing I have nothing to fear.

* * *

The letter appears to end there. Tommy’s gut runs cold and sour, feeling like he read something that never should have seen the light of day. At least it seems to have ended on a hopeful note. He moves to set it down, but the sun shining through the thin paper shows writing on the back. He turns the page over.

* * *

Or I could keep writing these letters, and keep thinking about your stupid fucking face, your stupid deep voice, and never fucking get over you. I could stay like this forever, pining and desperate and worthless. Just like you said I was.

When you told me I was nothing without you, it didn't matter if it was true at the time. I made it true. I was always whatever you needed me to be. You needed me to be weak.

I hate you and your fucking smile and stupid dumbass horns and fucking black suit

~~I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you~~ I HATE YOU.

* * *

His heart almost seizes, eyebrows creased hard enough to give him a headache. Tommy cradles the letter like it’s something delicate and walks it down to the shoreline. Kneeling by the water, he lets go of the piece of paper and allows the wind to carry it out to sea. Watching it get consumed by the waves, Tommy is left feeling some type of second-hand grief he can’t describe.


End file.
